Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2) (43 page)

The mage glances toward Blackflame, and I recall with sudden panic that I’d admitted to Osman Bey that I hadn’t fought him — that it had been something else in me. Did he report that or hold it in confidence? And why hasn’t he spoken up now? He must still be in the room….

“Are there any further questions for the prisoner?” Blackflame asks.

Why the panic?
Val asks, his voice tired but steady.
You’re almost done.

The lycans. They know it wasn’t me — I told one of them.

You
what?

I didn’t think I’d be able to escape the truth spell. I admitted I hadn’t been the one to fight them.

Val makes no comment, which makes me feel even more the fool.

“Very well,” Blackflame says into the quiet. “The prisoner will be escorted out and the Council will begin deliberation on the case.”

As Nightblade approaches
,
Val returns my body to me. It feels as brittle as glass riddled with cracks, held together more by a memory of shape than by any true strength. Every breath comes as a jagged, painful gasp. I have to school myself to breathe slowly, as steadily as I can, let the pain ebb and flow until it begins to ease.

I remain seated until Nightblade lifts the truth spell from me. Even then, the pain does not dissipate, but lingers. How did Val bear this for a whole day?

Thankfully, Nightblade drops his fingers from my forehead and departs without a word. I open my eyes to see the blurry image of his robes moving away.

My escort materializes around me.

I will check in on you later,
Val says
. Call if you need me.

Thank you.

My body answers me in jerky movements as I rise, as if it doesn’t quite remember the way of things. I push myself to my feet and teeter there uncertainly, as if half-drunk, until Ravenflight once more offers me her arm.

Halfway down the aisle, I remember to look for Osman Bey. He stands quietly, expression unreadable, golden eyes steady. I glance the other way to Stonefall, who appears equally inscrutable. As for Jabir, well, he looks like a harmless old man leaning on his staff, his gaze so bland it’s hard to believe he’s actually the sworn Guardian of the Mekteb, let alone a dragon-shifter. He certainly doesn’t look like he just watched me pull off the biggest heist in the history of truth spells.

I keep my focus on my footing as we pass them. It is all I can do to make it out of the room and down the hall to the next room. There are new trays of food laid out, but my stomach balks at the thought of eating.

I ease myself down on a sofa, close my eyes, and let myself breathe. Whatever the Council chooses, I have done what I can.

“Miss Hibachi.”

It can’t have been more than a few minutes since I sat down. I make myself open my eyes.

Ravenflight holds out a steaming bowl to me. “You would be wise to keep up your energy.”

She’s right, of course. I cannot afford my current weakness.

I take the bowl, nod as she sets a second plate on the sofa beside me. The food is wholesome and well seasoned, but my body wants none of it. I force down a few bites of the soup, try an equal number of bites from the food on the plate. When I have eaten what I can, I set the dishes to the side. Wordlessly, Ravenflight hands me a cup of water. I take it from her, wondering a little at her care. But she says no word, nor does anyone else speak as they finish their meals.

I stare at the floor with its covering of intricately designed carpets, following each twisting vine and uncurling flower on them, then trace my way back around to where I started in an attempt to focus on something other than my fate being decided in the room next door.

A knock comes at the door. I look up with a jerk, as do the other mages. The lycans were already watching the door, as if they’d heard who approached. The lycan stationed beside the door opens it and speaks to the mage in the hallway. I recognize him as the Council’s scribe. He speaks softly, but from the way his eyes flick to me, the brisk nod of the lycan, I know it’s a summons.

“The Council will see you, Miss Hibachi,” the lycan tells the room, his eyes resting on me for a moment before moving away.

Interesting. It is the first time the lycans have referred to me as anything other than “the prisoner.” And, other than Osman Bey, not once have they addressed me directly.

The remaining members of my escort stand up, waiting for me to rise. This time, my body answers me a little better, though my fingers have begun to shake. I hide them in my tunic as we make our way to the hearing room. Inside, I stand before the Council. The chair I’d used earlier has been removed, leaving me feeling exposed without its presence.

I risk a glance toward Nightblade. His expression is steady, the lines at the corners of his eyes slightly deeper. They tell me nothing for certain. I focus on Blackflame instead. He’s talking to the mage to his right, but he seems tense. Blackflame unhappy with the verdict can only be a good thing, I try to tell myself. Unless of course he’s happy with it, but still concerned about dealing with the stories I’ve told about him.

As the Council settles down and the scribe rings his bell again, I focus on the table before Blackflame’s chair, so that I don’t have to look at him or anyone else.
Breathe
.
Don’t let him see what this verdict will cost you
.

I wish I had greater courage, strength enough to keep my hands from trembling, to keep my breath from shuddering. It’s easier to be brave when you can still take some action of your own. It’s much, much harder when you stand completely at someone else’s mercy.

The scribe, still seated at his table to the side, clears his throat and begins to read from a parchment. “Kiki Hibachi has been found guilty on the charges of aiding and abetting the unlawful escape of a convicted prisoner, and unlawfully hiding a magical talent from the purview of the High Council. However, in light of her efforts to preserve the life of High Mage Harith Stonefall, the High Council requires further time to debate the final sentence. The High Council of Mages has thus decreed the following measure to be taken immediately. Kiki Hibachi is to be marked such that her magic is bound within her. The Council will reconvene tomorrow to finish discussing the case.”

His words blur together in my mind, his voice echoing strangely in my ears.
Marked
. One step away from being bound as a source slave. I’ve said the words before, talked about it both seriously and flippantly, but this
,
the heart-clenching realization that it is happening, to me, here, now — that it has been read to me in a monotone, half-bored voice — this I cannot comprehend.

When I lost everything else, I always had my magic running through my veins, flowing in my blood. Now what I have will be sealed within me. And the Council has not yet decided whether to bind me to a mage as a source slave, or imprison me, or strip my magic from me completely. I swallow hard, tasting bile, and become aware that someone is grasping my good arm, just below the elbow. The grip steadies me, keeps me from swaying. I look slowly to my side to see Ravenflight gazing straight ahead, her features expressionless. I likely would have fallen without her.

It takes an agonizing moment or two for my legs to regain their strength. Blackflame is speaking now, but the words are garbled. I watch his face, the flat blue of his eyes, the way the skin around the corner of his mouth sags a little when he pauses. But the words— what is he saying? Something about tomorrow? It’s all running together. And then he’s done, and the bell chimes again, and Ravenflight gives my arm a slight squeeze.

I turn toward her automatically. She moves with me, guiding me out.

It seems a hundred leagues to the door. Beyond the door, an immeasurable distance rolls out before my feet. My escort forms around me, and I follow their lead, one impossible, unfelt step after the other. Instead of returning to the infirmary, we leave through a different side door and enter the nearest building. A few students catch sight of us; they are nothing but flickering shapes glimpsed from the corner of my eye, fading into the twilight.

Another hallway, stairs, and then a room. I pause just inside, surprised out of my stupor by the very normalcy of this room. It’s a workshop of sorts, cluttered and comfortable. But for the tall windows, the walls are covered in shelves full of potions and powders. Two work tables crowd the center of the room, half-buried beneath books, stacks of parchment and paper, and more bottles and jars. The room is lit by a host of glowstones, some in holders along the wall, more in lamps anchored beneath the jumble on the tables. At the back of the room sits a wooden chair with leather straps attached to the armrests and the two front legs.

I halt, not caring that I’m blocking half my escort from entering.

“Keep going,” Ravenflight says. Her words have the quiet ring of authority to them, and something else I cannot quite place.

I turn my head to look at her. I feel empty inside, hollowed out, but whatever she sees in me puts her on edge. She tenses. The lycans around me go still, focused completely on me. One false move, and they’ll cut me down, strangle me with magic.

She’s right, there’s no running now. But hell if I’m going to get herded about like a goat to the slaughter. If I go quietly, then I’ll do it my way. I offer her a brittle smile that is probably more snarl than softness, gather my strength, and stride into the room, sweeping past the first of my escort. Now that I’ve decided what I’m going to do, it’s easy enough to pretend courage.

“You need to sit,” Ravenflight says as I come to a stop beside the worktables.

“I’ll sit,” I agree, resolutely ignoring the chair. “When the mage who’s supposed to do this is here.”

She eyes me with faint amusement. Perhaps she can see through my bravado to the quaking girl beneath. The lycans make no comment, stationing themselves by the windows but for two by the door. The remaining mages enter warily, congregating around Ravenflight until, with a sharp word, she sends them to take up posts alongside the lycans.

I lean against the table, scanning its contents even though I know that, with a dozen guards watching, I won’t be able to pocket anything that might aid me in an escape attempt. A parchment lying by my hand catches my attention: notes on improving a charm used to keep foxes away from chicken coops.
Really?
This is what the mage who’s going to bind me spends time on? Curious despite myself, I shift my gaze to another paper near me. It details the shortcomings of a standard novice-level spell for lighting a candle.

“I’ll need you to step away from the table,” Ravenflight says.

There’s no point in arguing, so I take a step away and ask, “Who
is
this mage?”

“Mistress Splinter,” she replies.

“And? She works on basic charms and spells, but she’s skilled enough to— do that?” I nod toward the chair.

Ravenflight considers her answer. When she speaks, it’s with a certain weight. “She does not refuse a request for aid if she can help it.”

Indeed. “Think she’ll help me?” I quip, careful not to look toward the just-opened door.

“I do not aid criminals,” a woman’s voice says, the words hard as stone.

I force the corners of my mouth down. “Then we’ll get along fine.”

Facing her, I dip my chin in the semblance of a bow. “Kiki Hibachi.” I want her to think of me as a person, not merely a job to get done.

“Splinter,” she says. She is neither young nor old, her face unlined but tired, her eyes surprising me; they lack the warmth one might expect of brown eyes, yet they are not hard either, as her voice led me to expect. Her entire appearance seems a series of unintentional paradoxes. Her nightdark hair is braided back into a single long rope that falls over her shoulder, resting against her crossed arms. I would have thought she would pull her hair back tightly, in the almost severe way of Mistress Stormwind, but this braid is all softness, her hair lying gently against her skin, framing an otherwise austere face. Indeed, she stands bony and tall, her shoulders sharp angles beneath her robe. The robe itself flows in fold upon fold of cloth, darkening from a mossy green at her shoulders to a swath of forest green where it touches the floor. A golden dragon crawls down her sleeve, the embroidery glimmering in the light of the glowstones.

“Please take a seat,” she says, and the dragon flicks its tongue at me between sharp teeth.

“Tell me about it first,” I reply, wishing I were still leaning against the table. “I want to know exactly what you’re going to do before they strap me in.” I’m playing for time, a desperate, pointless strategy, and from the press of Splinter’s lips she knows it. But she humors me.

“I will give you a potion to drink. The ink will enter your bloodstream and from there come up to your skin.” She eyes me thoughtfully before continuing. “There are three things you should know. First, the ink is indelible and, once it marks you, you will not be able to rid yourself of it. Second, it will hurt more than anything you’ve ever felt.” I doubt that, but I don’t interrupt. “Third, if you do not fight it, the markings will create a pattern on your arms that one might call delicate. The more you fight it, the harsher the markings. Once they set, they do not change.”